Ask Again Later
by Lemon Icee
Summary: Whatever happened to your favorite character and mine, Manic Eightball? Well, I'm not sure, but you can be sure he's not hanging out with Hasbro toys.


_**Author's Note:** Here's another attempt at a Venture Bros story, but this one is much more obscure. Manic Eightball was my absolute favorite character, it's just the best idea for a guy ever. But it's never said what happened to him after Underbheit was banished. So here's a story._

_You won't get it if you didn't watch TV in the 90s. If you did, hopefully you will. If not, go to YouTube and search "Perfection Commercial" and it'll be the first video you get._

_But it won't be as funny. Frankly I think this whole story is very convoluted and confusing. Oh well, hopefully you'll enjoy anyway!_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything or anyone._

* * *

Manic Eightball watched the gothic towers of Ünderland fall around him. He had been chained to those dismal walls for nearly a year, and for a decade before that he was forced to provide the repulsive Baron Ünderbheit with oversimplified answers to complicated domestic policy questions.

Now that the Baron had fallen from power, the new leader Girl Hitler had offered Eightball a job as a foreign adviser, but he felt he was too often type cast. Yes, his specialty was limited to Yes or No predictions, but he had other skills too. He was a talented caricaturist. He enjoyed knitting and playing lacrosse.

"You're sure you don't want to stay and help rebuild? We're all headed over to the Baron statue to pull it down with ropes and stuff. I think CNN is going to be there!" offered Catclopes eagerly. Manic Eightball just shook a little and revealed a sans serif "Don't count on it" on his torso.

"Well alright then, good luck Eightball! Hey we'll invite you over when we get this Democracy thing rollin'. I hear it's easy, it takes like, three months." Catclopes clapped Manic Eightball on the back, and he and Girl Hitler waved as the black clad figure departed the tiny country forever.

* * *

After a few minutes walk he was in Michigan. There weren't any cities or towns near Ünderland for obvious reasons, but an interstate highway ran near it. Manic Eightball positioned himself on the side of the road and stuck out a thumb. Behind him flames shot into the air, buildings were torn down and victorious cries of Ünderlandians could be heard. Eightball wasn't all that impressed with the prospect of democracy. All he wanted was a house, a partner who understood his unique method of communication and maybe someday, an arch villain of his very own.

Finally a faded red pickup truck pulled off onto the shoulder and stopped in front of Manic Eightball. He opened the door and climbed in. The driver was a disheveled looking man, probably in his thirties, with flyaway black hair and a big chin. He was wearing a bright yellow shirt with an equally blinding blue blazer over it. His eyes stared wildly without blinking. Eightball looked at his driver nervously, wondering if he should have waited for another car.

"Hey," said the driver in a shrill voice. "Where you headed?"

Eightball just shrugged with a slight shake of his head.

"Not a talker, eh? Just as well. I need every ounce of concentration to drive this thing!" With wild movements the man shifted into drive and took off, ignoring the scream of his tires.

Apparently, if the man wasn't able to concentrate while other people were talking, he had no trouble while he himself was carrying on a conversation. As he swerved and veered dangerously down the highway he began to spell out his life story to his uninterested passenger.

"…and they were always saying 'That's not good enough!' or 'Do it again! Start over!' Like they want me to be perfect or something," he turned his head to stare crazily at Manic Eightball, completely ignoring the stretch of road ahead of him. "We can't all be perfect, can we? We can't get it right all the time!"

Eightball was terrified. This man wasn't watching the road. He didn't see that the truck was veering off the asphalt, heading straight for a sturdy telephone pole. Eightball braced for impact, just as the man turned back to look straight ahead again.

"Whoaw!!" screamed the driver, and as the vehicle collided with the pole Eightball watched in awe as various figures exploded from the man's chest. Yellow x's, stars, crosses, circles, diamonds, a myriad of simple shapes popped out from him like yo-yos. Eightball was thrown against the dashboard with no seatbelt to restrain him. The driver's bizarre chest eruption acted as a rubbery airbag and he was left uninjured. Eightball lay slumped on the dash, oozing blue liquid from his head.

"Holy jeez!" Yelled the driver, chest now back to its normal, albeit still shockingly yellow state. "Sorry, I do the pop thing when I'm startled. You ok?"

Eightball looked up at his driver with contempt. His answer appeared on his torso as usual, although it was hard to make out since his innards were all shook up and frothy, "My sources say no."

Smoke poured out of the engine. The windshield was cracked beyond repair and the entire front end of the vehicle was totaled. Eightball decided it was a good time to leave. He opened the door and fell out of the truck, landing painfully on his hands and knees.

"Hey, you leaving? Wait! Here, take my card!" The primary colored man leapt out of his seat and handed Eightball and little yellow business card. It read, "Mr. Perfection: The perfect way to spice up your next party!"

"I do birthdays too!" yelled Mr. Perfection after Manic Eightball, who was limping down the freeway. "Tell your friends!"

Onto Eightball's torso faded the word 'Freak', and he continued down the road in search for a new ride.


End file.
